An Affair Most Wicked (2 page)

Chapter 1

The London Season

May 1883

Already late for her first ball in London—quite notably the most important ball of her life—Clara Wilson stood in the doorway of her sister’s boudoir, watching her chaperone, Mrs. Gunther, flip through a huge stack of invitations.

“I’m sure it’s one of these,” Mrs. Gunther said, spilling a few of them over the edge of the silver salver onto the mahogany desk. “It has to be.”

Mrs. Gunther was a staunch woman—the only person her mother trusted to act as Clara’s chaperone in London. She was a great social matriarch in America and came from a very prestigious family with very
old
money, but unfortunately for Clara, her memory was not as sharp as it once was.

“It was at—or somewhere near—Belgrave Square. I at least know that. I remember Sophia describing it.”

Clara’s tiny heels clicked over the marble floor as she crossed the room to peer over her chaperone’s shoulder. There were certain to be a number of balls ‘at or somewhere near’ Belgrave Square this evening. “Is there any way I can help you remember, Mrs. Gunther?”

They had to find it soon, for they were already late.

Mrs. Gunther flipped through invitation after invitation. They all looked the same—square, ivory cards with fancy titles in lavish print, and they all belonged to Clara’s older sister, Sophia.

Three years ago, Sophia had become the first American heiress to marry a duke. She and her husband, James, were immensely popular among the Marlborough House set, and there were never any shortages of social engagements to attend at any given moment. Which made the task of finding the correct invitation all the more difficult now.

“The Wilkshire Ball, the Devonshire, the Berkley…” Mrs. Gunther said. “No, no, no. The Allison Ball. Could that be… ? Wait, Lord and Lady Griffith… was that it?”

Mrs. Gunther continued to guess haphazardly at the names, and Clara’s hopes for the evening took a deep, sickening dip and settled uncomfortably in her belly. Everything depended on this one night, and if Clara did not reach that ball tonight, there might not be a second chance. For Clara—the latest American heiress to invade aristocratic London—had to pass the test. In order to be accepted and welcomed into British society like her sister had been, Clara had to glide into a London ballroom and win the approval of the Prince of Wales. Or end up returning to New York, where her position in society was fragile, to say the least.

She shook away the shiver, for she could not afford to have her mind congested with misgivings tonight. The past was in the past. It was time to move forward.

“Ah.” Mrs. Gunther turned to face Clara and handed her the invitation. “Here it is. The Livingstons on Upper Belgrave Street. I’m certain this is it. We can go now, my dear.”

Releasing a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Clara smoothed a gloved hand over the antique lace on her French silk gown, and touched the glittering diamond-and-pearl choker at her neck. She led the way out of her sister’s boudoir, the precious ivory invitation safe in her hand.

A moment later, they were stepping out of the brilliantly lit manor and into the dark, still night. Mantles buttoned at their bare necks, ivory fans dangling from their wrists, they walked down the stone steps to the coach.

As soon as Clara stepped onto the sidewalk, however, her heel imposed upon a crack and she stumbled. The invitation went sailing out of her gloved hand, and she toppled sideways into a tall, extravagantly liveried footman who caught her and righted her before she even had a chance to notice him there.

Clara collected herself. “My word. Thank you! What a decidedly convenient place for you to be standing just then!”

Without a hint of a smile, the young man nodded.

Clara gazed at him for a moment, but he stood like a palace guard, his face made of stone.

Clara sighed hopelessly.
The English
.

Pray, the people she would meet tonight would have a little more personality. A sense of humor at least.

Clara picked up the invitation. She looked at it more closely, and pointed a finger. “What’s that symbol in the corner?”

Mrs. Gunther squinted at the small triangular medallion printed on the card, with the letters MWO above it. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Sophia when we see her.”

The footman handed them up into the crested black coach with shiny silver fittings, then hopped onto the page board as the vehicle lurched forward and turned toward Belgravia.

A short time later, they pulled up in front of a grand manor house, lit up like a sparkling jewel in the night. Clara could hear the music from the orchestra inside. Couples moved past the large windows, twirling on the dance floor to a Strauss waltz. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sizzled through her veins, and she gathered up her silk skirt to follow Mrs. Gunther out of the coach and onto the sidewalk.

They made their way up the stone path to the front door beneath a massive portico. A broad-shouldered, bald man with an earring stood at the entrance, and when Clara and Mrs. Gunther approached, he stepped in front of the door, which was closed tightly behind him.

Mrs. Gunther rolled her shoulders in that haughty way of hers, a skill she had perfected to a science. “We are here for the ball,” she said in her best matriarchal voice, with one intimidating eyebrow raised.

“Do you have an invitation?” His deep, booming voice didn’t intimidate Mrs. Gunther. She kept her eyes on his as she reached into her gleaming silver purse.

“Here.” She handed it to him.

He glanced over it, then lifted his narrow gaze to assess each of them individually. Clara felt a prickling of dread, as if they were about to be turned away. Was this how her Season in London was to begin? A failure, before she even set foot in the door?

There was suspicion in his voice. “You’re American?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gunther replied.

“You’ll be a novelty, then.” He stepped out of the way of the door and opened it. “You’ll find the masks on the oak table just inside the entrance.”

Mrs. Gunther eyed him incredulously. “Masks?”

Clara nudged her through the door before she could question him about the mask theme, for Clara did not want to appear as if they did not belong. She wanted to fit in.

Once they were inside, Mrs. Gunther said, “I did not like that man.”

“Neither did I. I’ll feel much better when we see Sophia and James.”

They found a large crystal bowl full of feathered masks just inside the door, and Clara chose a cream-colored one to bring out the auburn highlights in her dark brown hair.

A woman walked by while they were donning their masks, and Clara could have sworn she wasn’t wearing a corset. Clara’s lips fell open, and she was about to say something to Mrs. Gunther, but caught herself and didn’t mention it. Surely, she had been mistaken.

They withdrew to the cloak room to freshen up, then made their way across the crowded grand hall toward the ballroom.

As soon as Clara stepped inside, her mood instantly lifted. She relaxed, clearing her mind of all the rules she had been going over in her head and all the mistakes she was sure she would make, for what a dazzling room it was. Couples swirled around the floor in bright splashes of color and glitter. The music from the orchestra seemed to come from the blue beyond, so skilled were the musicians, and all the ladies and gentlemen looked elegant and happy.

A footman approached with a tray of champagne, and offered glasses to Clara and Mrs. Gunther.

Mrs. Gunther shook her head and waved a hand to decline. The man’s brow furrowed, and he looked at them as if they possessed antlers.

“Really, you must,” he said in a pleasant tone, raising the tray toward them again. “Lord Livingston would be disappointed if you didn’t try it.”

Clara, still wanting to fit in, took a glass of the bubbly and carefully sipped, savoring its delicious taste and delighting in the way it poured heat through every limb. The footman winked at her as he left.

“Did you see that?” she said to her chaperone.

Mrs. Gunther touched her arm. “Pardon me? Oh, my dear, you don’t have a dance card.” She stopped a lady passing by, and asked her.

Clara left the issue of the winking footman alone.

The woman, wearing a black and white feathered mask and a garnet gown trimmed in velvet, merely laughed. “We don’t bother with names
here
,” she said, then continued on her way.

Clara suddenly felt as if she’d just followed Alice down the rabbit hole.

“Perhaps it’s because the Prince is coming,” Mrs. Gunther surmised. “They say he is not at all as prim as his mother, and prefers to move with the fast set.”

“What if someone asks me to dance?” Clara whispered. “What about introductions?”

“No one else seems to be bothering with them.” Mrs. Gunther’s concerned gaze swept the room, and her voice took on that haughty tone again. “This is highly improper. Where is Sophia? I would like her to explain what we are expected to—”